In Brandy, Truth
by gwennie3579
Summary: Will/Finn pre-slash. The truth comes out about the real father of Quinn's baby, and Finn turns to the one person he knows he can trust.


**Disclaimer:** _Glee_ is not owned by me, sadly. The characters and plots are the sole property of its creators. Creating slashy situations where none should probably exist? That's all me.

**AN:** This is pre-slash, though it's pretty darn mild. There is a sequel being written now, though that will also probably be pre-slash or just serious UST. 'Cause it's all about the buildup, kids.

"It's not yours."

Finn looked at his girlfriend, her quiet words bringing his tirade to an abrupt halt. They'd been fighting for weeks now, each blow-up worse than the one before. This time, Quinn had snapped at him after he'd made what he saw as a thoughtful gesture -- bringing her a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of Pepto Bismol after she'd gotten sick and left school early.

Now, her words brought him up short. He cocked his head and looked at her closely. She seemed older somehow, more worn. Her eyes were dull and the skin underneath looked thin and bruised. Her lips were pale and drawn at the corners, and suddenly he realized she hadn't worn makeup in at least three days. His gaze wandered down to her belly, just starting to show beneath her cotton t-shirt. It was one he'd seen her wear before, but he noticed it fit a bit tighter than before. If they weren't in the middle of a fight, he might have paid her a compliment on how nice it looked, pulled taut across her tummy.

"Finn? Did you hear me?"

Finn raised his eyes to meet hers, remembering he was supposed to be angry. "I heard you," he said gruffly, running a hand over his hair and letting it rest at the back of his neck, where he could feel a headache coming on. "What's not mine?"

Quinn looked at him with something that might have been pity, or might just have been frustration. Finn was much more used to the latter. Taking a deep breath, Quinn fixed her gaze on Finn's.

"The baby, Finn," she said, speaking slowly and carefully. "The baby's not yours."

Finn blinked. Let his hand drop from his neck, then lifted it to scratch his arm. He looked down at the carpet, which was beige, like most everything else in the Fabrays' house, then looked back up at Quinn. There might have been tears in her eyes, but he couldn't tell. She looked... different, suddenly. There was something fuzzy, out-of-focus about her.

"The baby..." he repeated dumbly.

"Yes, Finn. The baby." Quinn's hand went to her belly, and Finn watched, transfixed, as she rubbed small circles over the gentle swell.

"Our baby." Finn thought his voice sounded funny. He swallowed, opened his mouth to try again, but nothing came out.

Quinn was shaking her head, looking sad. "No, Finn. _My_ baby. Mine, and --"

"No," he said quickly, raising a hand to cut her off. "I don't want --"

"Finn, you have to let me tell you." Quinn's voice was pleading now, insistent. "I _need_ to tell you."

"No," he said again, shaking his head. "Just... no."

"It's Puck's," Quinn said softly, though the words almost echoed in the stillness of the room.

Finn's jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. There was a long pause, and then...

"Don't you think I know that?" he said in low voice. It sounded dangerous, even to his own ears. He felt bad for a moment -- he didn't want to frighten Quinn.

"You knew?" she said, taking a small step toward him. He quickly backed away, not wanting her to touch him.

"I'm not a complete moron," he said, looking anywhere but at her face. "I know how to Google."

"Why didn't you --?"

"I didn't care. I mean, I cared... I just... I would've... I would've been there. Would've taken care of it. Still would." Finn kept his head down, but peered up at Quinn through his lashes. She was shaking her head, tears streaking down her cheeks, teeth worrying her bottom lip. Finn wanted to touch her, wanted to soothe her, to make it right, but he suddenly had the feeling nothing would be right between them, not anymore.

"Finn, we can't. I can't. I'm... I'm giving it up."

Without a word, Finn turned and walked out the front door, letting it slam behind him. It was raining now, which Finn thought just figured. He heard the door open, and Quinn started after him, but he turned and motioned her back inside. He didn't want it on his conscience if she caught pneumonia because of him. Reluctantly, she stepped back into the foyer, letting the door swing shut behind her. Satisfied, Finn turned, hunching his shoulders, and kept walking. He didn't consciously think about his destination, but he walked with single-minded purpose, barely feeling the chill of the cold fall rain as it seeped through his sweatshirt.

A while later, he was pounding on a door with a "Happy Harvest" wreath hanging on it, praying for an answer.

The door swung open suddenly, revealing Mr. Schue, wearing a pair of ratty grey sweatpants, and a dark green bathrobe. His wavy hair was sticking out in odd places, and there was a red crease down his right cheek. Finn realized he'd woken the man up, and wondered what time it was. It got dark so early now... but he didn't think he'd been walking that long...

"Finn?" Mr. Schue said, forehead wrinkling up in confusion and surprise. He took in the state of the boy, soaking wet and completely dejected, and swung the door open. "What's the matter?" he asked, as he stepped aside to let Finn in.

Finn shook his head, shivering in his teacher's entryway, at a complete loss for words. He felt suddenly very young and very awkward, and wondered why he'd come here. He glanced around helplessly, wondering if it would be bad manners to turn around and leave as abruptly as he'd shown up. He decided it probably would be.

Apparently realizing he wasn't going to get an answer, Mr. Schue pulled Finn into the living room, then gestured for him to sit down. When Finn just stood there, he muttered something about getting him dried off, and disappeared from the room.

He came back a moment later, carrying a thick blue and white-striped towel.

"The baby isn't mine," Finn blurted out, keeping his gazed fixed on the corner of the wooden coffee table. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Schue toss the towel onto the edge of the couch, then felt two warm hands on his arms.

"Who told you that?" Mr. Schue asked, sounding dubious. "You know what the rumor mill is like, especially --"

"Quinn told me. I knew anyway. I mean, part of me knew."

"Who's --"

"It's Puck's."

Finn heard Mr. Schue's sharp intake of breath, and felt the hands on his arms squeeze tighter.

"Finn, I'm so... Look, it's going to be alright. We're going to get through this, okay? Now, what's Quinn planning to do about it?"

Finn looked up sharply, eyes narrowing. "Do about what?"

Mr. Schue gave him a sympathetic look. "About the baby," he said gently.

Finn shook his head, swallowing past the burn in his throat. "It's not an 'it'," he said, now fighting for control of his voice. "She's a girl. She's my... girl." And with that, Finn's tenuous grasp on his self-control snapped. His voice choked, and the tears came hot and fast, before he could even think about stopping them.

Without a word, Mr. Schue pulled him closer, and he allowed his forehead to drop onto the older man's shoulder. He could smell his aftershave, and thought vaguely that it was weird to notice that about another man. Mr. Schue's arm came around his back then, one hand clapping him awkwardly on the shoulder, probably a little harder than the situation warranted. The clap eventually became a pat, and then the pat became a caress. Finn sobbed through it all, not caring about the physical contact as much as he did about just having someone there.

Finally, it occurred to him that he was dripping all over Mr. Schue's carpet, and all over Mr. Schue as well. He pulled back abruptly, swiping the back of a hand over his eyes, and backed away.

"Sorry," he muttered, not really sure if he was apologizing, or simply noticing his own sad state of being. He stepped over to the couch and picked up the forgotten towel, pressing his face into it, enjoying the clean scent of laundry detergent and fabric softener. A little self-consciously, he toweled off his hair and then draped the soggy thing over his shoulders. He sniffed, then turned back to Mr. Schue.

"Thanks," he said, attempting a smile. Mr. Schue returned it, looking more than a little relieved.

"We _will_ figure this out," he said reassuringly. "Now, can I get you something? You need a drink?"

_Not the kind you're offering_, Finn thought, but he nodded anyway. "Sure. Thanks."

Nodding in response, Mr. Schue left Finn in the living room while he headed for the kitchen. Finn glanced around, taking in the small but homey room, wondering where Mr. Schue's wife was. He hoped he hadn't woken her up, too. Not wanting to mess up the couch with his still-damp clothes, Finn perched on the edge of the coffee table, praying it was sturdy enough to hold his weight.

A few moments later, Mr. Schue returned, a steaming mug in hand. He glanced at Finn's position and raised an eyebrow. Finn gave him a sheepish shrug, and Mr. Schue shook his head.

"Let me get you some sweats," he said. "Here," he added, holding out the mug. "Hot coffee. Not fresh, but close enough."

Finn took the mug, relishing the warmth, but wrinkled his nose at the contents. "I don't drink coffee," he said, then wanted to kick himself for sounding so ungrateful.

Mr. Schue gave him a grim smile. "You'll drink this coffee," he said, and disappeared once again.

Bemused, Finn tipped his face down and sniffed the mug. He frowned. It didn't smell like the coffee his mom made every morning. There was something... sharper... about it. Grimacing, he took a sip, and nearly choked. There was something mixed with the coffee -- whiskey, or brandy, or something. Slowly, Finn smiled. Mr. Schue was pretty alright. Thinking this, he took another sip, and another.

Mr. Schue came back in with an old track suit, and Finn excused himself to the bathroom to change. Neither said anything about the spiked coffee, but Finn hoped his teacher saw the grateful look he gave him when he walked by.

A few moments later, the two were sprawled on the couch, mostly silent, Finn slowly sipping his coffee, wearing pants that were about three inches two short, and not caring. Mr. Schue had a mug, too, though Finn was fairly sure his was the boring everyday variety.

"You hungry?" Mr. Schue said eventually. Finn nodded, then looked over guiltily.

"I can go home," he said. "I'm really sorry I just barged in like this. I just... didn't know where to go. I know you and your wife... I mean... I don't want to bother you guys."

"Oh," Mr. Schue said, suddenly looking embarrassed. "She's, uh... she's not here right now. She's spending the night at her sister's." Finn could swear he saw the man's cheeks go a little pink, but he thought better than to mention it. Finally, understanding dawned on him.

"Fight?" he asked, and Mr. Schue ducked his head, face definitely flushed.

"Yeah," he said, picking at an invisible spot of lint on the sleeve of his robe. "We've had quite a few of those lately. She's, uh... well, she's... she'll be fine," he finished, and Finn wondered who he was trying to convince.

The silence stretched on then, getting more awkward by the second.

"You say something about food?" Finn said, and Mr. Schue looked up with a smile.

"Pizza?"

"Yeah."

Mr. Schue picked up his cell phone and placed the order. Forty minutes later, they were still on the sofa, watching an old hockey game on ESPN Classic, the coffee table strewn with napkins, paper plates, and leftover pizza crusts. Finn had finished his coffee, and felt a pleasant buzzing all through him.

Mr. Schue looked over and saw his empty mug. "You want more?" Finn nodded and hauled himself up.

"I'll get it."

"Straight coffee this time, okay?"

"Okay."

He wandered into the kitchen, checked to make sure he wasn't in Mr. Schue's line of sight, then picked up the uncapped brandy bottle on the counter. Finn hadn't had much experience with alcohol. He'd a few beers here and there, and had been buzzed a couple times, but he'd never quite managed to make it all the way to drunk. He didn't know how much liquor it took to get a person there. Shrugging, he tipped the bottle and poured a healthly amount into his mug, topping it off with a little of the leftover coffee. He carried the mug into the living room, careful not to slosh any over the sides, and resumed his spot on the couch.

Finn didn't even realized he'd passed out, until he was waking up, Mr. Schue's anxious face just inches away from his own.

"Wha --?" he muttered, and immediately regretted opening his mouth. His stomach was churning, and the entire room was spinning. Above him, Mr. Schue's face swam and shook until, feeling seasick, he had to look away.

"Finn? Are you okay?" Finn felt Mr. Schue smack his cheek gently, and he groaned his protest.

"Stop it," he whimpered, swallowing past the bile in his throat. He shut his eyes tight, willing the nausea to pass, and concentrated on breathing deeply through his nose.

"Have you... been drinking?" Mr. Schue said, and Finn would have rolled his eyes, had he been able to do so without upchucking all over his teacher.

"No," he said weakly, then clutched his stomach as another wave of sickness hit.

Finn opened his eyes a slit just in time to see Mr. Schue frown. "Then why do you smell like an inebriated yeti?" he asked.

Finn tried to ask how Mr. Schue knew what an inebriated yeti smelled like, but all that came out was a garbled, slurred string of incoherence.

He heard his teacher sigh above him. "How much did you have?" he asked, sounding resigned.

"Jus' wha' you gave me," Finn said, thinking a nap was starting to sound like a really good idea. He closed his eyes again, but the room kept spinning all around him. He was getting dizzy just lying there.

"I gave you half a shot in your coffee. That much wouldn't intoxicate a chipmunk."

Finn snorted, or tried to. "Tha's all," he said, trying to sound grave and serious. "Maybe 'nother half a cupful. Maybe a cupful."

Another sigh. "Finn, a shot is _not_ a cup. Come on, sit up -- you need some water."

"'M fine," Finn said, shaking off Mr. Schue's hand on his shoulder. "Leave me 'lone."

"_Up_," Mr. Schue said, in what Finn knew was his don't-mess-with-me-I'm-a-teacher voice. Sighing, he allowed Mr. Schue to help him into a fairly upright position.

And immediately knew it was a mistake.

Clapping a hand over his mouth, he looked up, wide-eyed, at Mr. Schue. His teacher stared at him for a moment, confused, until understanding finally dawned on his face.

"Are you going to throw up?"

Finn nodded.

A third sigh. Then, Mr. Schue hauled him up from the couch and steered him quickly into the bathroom. Finn stumbled over his feet, knees week, but Mr. Schue managed to keep him standing. They got into the bathroom and Mr. Schue pushed him down to his knees, at the same time flipping up the toilet seat.

It was just in time, as Finn immediately revisited the half of a large supreme pizza he'd scarfed down just a short time before. Heaving, Finn clutched the toilet bowl as sweat ran in rivulets down his forehead. His stomach clenched and contracted, but there was nothing left to come up. Finally, Mr. Schue reached over to flush the toilet, then helped Finn lean back against the cool ceramic of the bathtub.

"Feel better?" he asked, running a wash cloth under cool water and handing it to his student.

Finn nodded, though he was feeling decidedly NOT better, and took the cloth gratefully, scrubbing it over his face.

"Sorry," he said lamely, voice muffled by the damp terrycloth. He lowered it slowly, a new, awful thought occurring to him. "Are you going to have to turn me in for this?" he asked, wondering what he'd do if he were forced off the football team, or worse, glee club.

Mr. Schue gave him a stern look, and Finn felt his stomach churn again. The older man must have taken pity on him, because his face relaxed, and he let out an exasperated huff.

"I'd be in more trouble than you if I turned you in," he said, running a hand through his hair. He looked worn out, and Finn felt a sudden pang of guilt.

"Oh," he said, realizing how right Mr. Schue was. "I'm really sorry, man. I shouldn't have put you in that position. I just..."

"It's okay," Mr. Schue said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's as much my fault as it is yours. We just won't let it happen again."

Finn nodded his assent gratefully. The room had finally stopped spinning, and he was starting to feel a little more human. His head still felt fuzzy though, full of cotton, and his thoughts were tripping over each other with dizzying speed. He hadn't really actually talked to Mr. Schue about what had happened, and now he found he suddenly wanted the man's opinion.

"What am I gonna do?" he said softly, looking up at his teacher, hoping he'd find the answer somewhere in the older man's face.

Mr. Schue gave him a sad smile and sat down on the toilet lid, elbows on his knees, hands clasped under his chin. "I really don't know," he said finally, and Finn swallowed down another round of tears. "I do know that we'll get through this. I wish I had a better answer for you, but I don't. What Quinn did was wrong, lying to you, and now she and Noah have a whole new set of problems to deal with. It's not going to be easy for them. Or for you."

"She's giving her up," Finn said, voice quavering. "The baby. She doesn't... doesn't want her."

"And you did?" Mr. Schue asked gently.

Finn sighed. "I knew it was going to be hard. Really hard. And I was so pissed off at first. I blamed Quinn for letting it happen. Then all of a sudden, something changed. I just started thinking about all the things my dad did wrong, and I... I just didn't want to be like that. Didn't want to make those same mistakes. I guess I wanted to prove that I could be a better father than he was. And then I saw her... on the sono-whatever, you know? And she was... real. She was this creepy-lookin' little alien thing, and all I wanted was to take care of her, and make sure she knew she was loved, 'cause I never did. You know?" Finn, having run out of steam, looked up at his teacher, and was surprised to find the other man's eyes shining.

"I know," he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. "I know exactly what you mean."

Finn leaned forward then, his right temple making contact with Mr. Schue's knee. He felt the man's leg stiffen beneath him for a moment, and then Mr. Schue's hand was on his head, fingers sifting gently through his hair. Finn relaxed into the touch, feeling comforted, and promising himself he'd forget about it in the morning. After all, that's what happened after a night of drinking, right?

Mr. Schue traced the shell of his ear with a single finger, and Finn felt a shiver race through him. It seemed Mr. Schue felt it, too, because he let his hand drop, then gave Finn a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"I think it's time you get some sleep," he said, and Finn thought he heard something uncertain in the older man's voice.

"Yeah," Finn said, his own voice a little unsteady. Shakily, he pulled himself to his feet, and stood back to allow Mr. Schue to do the same. The stood there, facing each other awkwardly, neither knowing what to say.

"Think you can get some rest now?" Mr. Schue said finally, breaking the silence.

"I think so," Finn said, looking down at his teacher, suddenly finding it amusing that the older man was shorter than him. He still felt the alcohol buzzing through his veins, making his limbs tingle pleasantly and his thoughts run free. Smiling slightly, he leaned down until his face was mere inches away from Mr. Schue's.

"Thanks for everything... _Will._" Saying his teacher's forbidden first name gave Finn an unexpected rush. He could see Mr. Schue's -- _Will's_ -- jaw clench, but the other man said nothing. He swallowed hard, and suddenly Finn knew he was just as affected by the breaking of the taboo as he had been. Finn leaned down further, resting his forehead against his teacher's.

"You're welcome," Will whispered. "... Finn."

And suddenly, with that soft exchange, Finn knew that things were going to start looking up.


End file.
